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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792484">The King's Court</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koruga/pseuds/Koruga'>Koruga</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood, Body Dysphoria, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, Forced Hair Cutting, Horribad, Jonah Magnus Week, M/M, Poetry, Possession, Relationships Are Minor or Implied, Sonnets, Torture, Trans Martin Blackwood, a bunch of characters are trans martin's just the only one who's mentioned, mouth horror, ritual violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:34:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,047</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792484</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koruga/pseuds/Koruga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a book that allows for great and horrible deeds to be done.</p><p>There is a man who wants nothing more than a court of fools.</p><p>There is a world in which resurrection is easy, if you know the steps.</p><p>Jonah Magnus reforms his inner circle.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonah Magnus/Barnabas Bennett, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus, Jonah Magnus Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. With Barest Wrists and Stoutest Boasts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Massive thanks to Judie and Summer for beta reading this work! This was originally meant to be for Smirke's day in Jonah week, and I guess it still sort of fits under esoteric research? It's not exact but I wrote this in a blur and I don't even know if it's coherent. All I know is that I never want to make a sonnet again.</p><p>Do mind the tags -- there's a good amount of ritualistic gore in this, and I don't think that's for the faint of heart. The Character Death tag is more for safety's sake -- nobody really dies as such, but they may as well have. If you think there's anything else that needs to be tagged, don't hesitate to tell me!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It has been, Jonah feels, far too long since he's used some of the books at his disposal. </p><p> </p><p>"Leitners" would be the common parlance, but the librarian never got his hands on the tome Jonah flips through right now. He's kept it well-hidden, in between his other treasures and locked up where nobody can use it. <em> Tamerlane and Other Poems </em> is not a particularly ostentatious book, but it's so <em> very </em> useful for what he has in mind.</p><p> </p><p>All he needs, after all, is to open the door ever so slightly, and the world will do the rest. There's no need to worry that he may be unable to complete the ritual he is setting out to do, that he won't be strong enough. He is the strongest being in this world he's made, and he knows better than anyone how to make this work.</p><p> </p><p>Jonah wouldn't call himself <em> lonely </em> in this new world, but being king is not nearly as entertaining without a court to fan around him. </p><p> </p><p>Jonah's heels click against the cold marble of the floor as he enters his throne room, and stop as he observes the crowd in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>It's taken some time for him to pick the best bodies for the job. Mordechai was easy enough, though actually retrieving the corpse and keeping it in decent condition was a frustrating endeavour. Rayner never cared much for a specific body, so Jonah used his best judgement to find him something everyone would enjoy. He needed only to track down one of Sampson's descendants, and the same with Robert, but Albrecht's line hadn't left the 19th century. Much of Jonah's wasted time in this ritual had come from finding a good lookalike for Albrecht to slot into.</p><p> </p><p>Simon, of course, was happy to float in when he was called, alive and unbothered by the proceedings. The fact that he wasn't in the room at the moment was of no great concern to Jonah; Simon would show up eventually. He always did.</p><p> </p><p>And that, then, left Jonathan Fanshawe and Barnabas Bennett. Two bodies Jonah knew from the outset he could slot them into, now helpless on either side of Jonah's throne. Jonah examines them from afar, smiling gently to himself.</p><p> </p><p>The milky white curls and blotchy skin of Martin Blackwood are not quite the image of Jonah's first love, but Barnabas is so similar to Martin, if a bit softer around the edges, and Jonah simply can't resist the matching set he'll have.</p><p> </p><p>After all, Jonathan Sims was always the spitting image of Doctor Fanshawe. Marred slightly by scars and pain, but they have the same bend to their spine, the same curve of their nose. They share a history, and best of all, they share a name. It will be a shame, he knows, to lose his Archivist in the shuffle, but it will only be the personality that's gone. The body will remain, and Doctor Fanshawe will treat it well. The Archivist has served his purpose.</p><p> </p><p>Jonah takes a glance down at the book in his hands before moving over to Robert's future host, whose name for the past thirty nine years has been Emmett. He's a handsome thing, with Robert's curls and soft lips covered by the gag in his mouth, and Jonah presses a hand against his cheek. "You can't begin to comprehend how grateful I am," he murmurs, before plunging a dagger into the man's chest.</p><p> </p><p>Emmett would scream, if he were still capable of such a thing, but he's helpless to stop as Jonah scrapes the skin from his sternum, can't do anything but watch him delicately carve symbols into bone. An ankh, the Monas Hieroglyphica, squared circles and circled squares, all surrounded by a delicately weaving ouroboros on the edges of the sternum. Tears stream down Emmett's face as Jonah carves his ancestor's name into the exact center, and begins to recite the words so carefully preserved in <em> Tamerlane. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> In solemn silence I wait for my love </em>
</p><p>
  <em> To make his way out of that dark abyss </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And find me in this Hell I've made above </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Then seal his fate with a poisonous kiss. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He may admit a fear of our new world </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The chaos festering in his absence, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But in between his fingers he'll find curled </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The key for us to recreate balance. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> May he never find fault with what I've built </em>
</p><p>
  <em> To give the two of us this perfect life </em>
</p><p>
  <em> May he not care who I have ever killed, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> For I have formed an art within that strife. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I toil and grind, on this one sin I slave </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he should ne'er face another marked grave. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Emmett Barnes sputters out his last breath from behind the gag, and Jonah lovingly removes it so Robert Smirke can breathe his first in stolen lungs.</p><p> </p><p>Robert seems confused as Jonah undoes the restraints. It's understandable, really, why he would have trouble comprehending the world in which he now resides, but Jonah wastes little time with that. The gory wound on his chest is already scabbing over — soon, Jonah knows, it will be nothing but a scar for him to press kisses to. It's unfortunate, as well, that Jonah must still wear the skin of Elias Bouchard instead of settling back into his first, most comfortable form, but sacrifices must be made. Robert, of all people, can tell who's massaging his wrists, merely by the way Elias holds himself, the straightness of his back and the golden glint of his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Jonah," he begins, before holding a hand to his throat. "Jonah. Evening, dawn, and dusk — I sound different. What have you done to me?"</p><p> </p><p>"I've given you new life," Jonah replies airily, helping Robert up onto his feet to look around. "I've finally discovered a way to bring balance into the world, Robert, and I wanted nothing more than to show it to you, and the rest of our inner circle." He gestures at the bodies surrounding them, and the empty seat where Simon still hasn't settled in for the show. "I've done it. I took what you taught me and brought it into sharp focus."</p><p> </p><p>Robert tuts, and looks around the room. The Panopticon is nearly unrecognisable in this form, an endless, labyrinthine mess of contradictions, but it manages to still be perfectly balanced. Fourteen fears, coalesced into one building, thirteen pillars holding up the all-seeing Eye. He lets his gaze move across the gathered forms, and stops at the furious form of Jonathan Sims. "Jonah, is that—? "</p><p> </p><p>"It will be. If you'd like to examine him, however, I wouldn't stop you. I think you might enjoy him. He, of all people, has taken your message of balance to heart."</p><p> </p><p>Jonah can't help but smirk to himself as Robert walks up to the Archivist. Jon is bound tighter than the rest of them — Jonah expected both Jonathans to be rather recalcitrant in the whole affair, so he took extra precautions. Strung up against the wall, Jon is a sight to behold. The chains shackled to his wrists and ankles hang far too heavy for him to truly struggle, and he seems to have given up on trying. His hair hangs loose around his face, and his mouth is properly occupied with something...special.</p><p> </p><p>Jon, after all, is rather more powerful than the rest of the men Jonah has gathered for his menagerie combined. His words alone could demolish them all, and Jonah simply couldn't take that risk. </p><p> </p><p>The gag in his mouth is ring-shaped, allowing some noises to escape him, but it runs deeper, nestled nearly against his throat. It's an artefact of the Flesh, one Jonah had ordered bespoke for such an occasion, and too much movement of the tongue cleanly slices it off. It's messy, obviously, but it's not permanent. Jon is far too unique to damage for any length of time, and both he and Jonah know that whenever it's removed, it will reattach within the hour.</p><p> </p><p>But then, it's still very painful. And should he do it too much, try to talk despite the difficulty, there's someone nearby Jon would very much rather <em> not </em> bear the brunt of retribution.</p><p> </p><p>Robert takes Jon's jaw in his hand and examines him carefully, his eyes tracing the pattern of scars across his face. "What happened to him?" he asks Jonah carefully, as Jonah begins the process of bringing back Rayner.</p><p> </p><p>"He was marked. Each of the Powers made an impression on him, until he became the perfect synthesis of fear." Jonah begins carving into the next captive's sternum -- this one is actually named Maxwell as well, a fun coincidence that may have tipped the scales slightly in his favour when Jonah was picking a host. Interlaced crescent moons around a unicursal hexagram, and a litany of closed Eyes of Horus. "Please, feel free to continue examining him, but I'll have to ask you to remain quiet as I bring Rayner back to life." He took a deep breath, and began his next invocation;</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> In silent stares, that unforgiving gaze </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That follows me, sloughs off his back like rain </em>
</p><p>
  <em> His darkest light shall, with my effort, raise </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Us both into a world made out of pain. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I cannot lie, when shadows climb these walls, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That I fear the blackness that may follow </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And when I search where he once roamed, the halls </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Can't help but to echo, they feel hollow. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But we remain two sides of the same coin, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He says light exists not, without the dark; </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The world allows the two of us to join </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Our fears; the diff'rence no longer so stark. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I toil and grind, on this one sin I slave </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he should ne'er face another marked grave. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Rayner's reformation is not nearly as exhilarating as Robert's was, but there's certainly something to admire in the way the man's eyes turn milky white, as if cream was poured into his pupils and irises. He crosses his legs in his little throne and stares in Jonah's direction with nothing but judgement in his gaze.</p><p> </p><p>"Yes, yes, I know. At least be grateful that I thought to bring you back, you know I wasn't obligated to." Jonah rolls his eyes at Rayner's unflappability.</p><p> </p><p>"I've done it before," Rayner says simply, tugging at the shadows pooling beneath him to ensure he still holds the power that is his very essence. "All you've done is rebind me to a physical form, which is the essence of how I've survived for hundreds of years."</p><p> </p><p>"And yet, I didn't have to resort to any of the means you used to do it. Strange, how that works."</p><p> </p><p>"Will you two quit your bickering?" Robert interjects, turning from his examination of Jon to the two beings of Fear behind him. "There are more important things than the petty rivalry you two so inexplicably share. I'd rather examine this marvel in peace." He turns back to Jon, lips curling back into an idyllic smile. "Beautiful thing," he murmurs, tracing the fractal scar pattern on Jon's forearm. "How much effort was put into you, to make you as perfectly balanced as you are?"</p><p> </p><p>Jonah smirks and moves up to examine Jon with Robert. "That was the Spiral, of course. A fragment of it was very put off by this Archivist, and tried to teach him a few lessons." He presses against the marred flesh, and watches Jon desperately try not to wince. A simple look into his head reverberates with a fractal pain, each agony fragmented and split apart, less painful but never truly ending. He gives it another prod for good measure before pulling away with a self-satisfied smirk.</p><p> </p><p>Robert hardly seems to notice, instead tracing the various worm scars with his fingers. "These would be from the Corruption, would they not?" he asks, looking to Jonah for the nod of assent before he turns back, digging one finger into a particularly large worm hole. "Fascinating. I do recall studying a similar phenomenon in 1822, with burrowing leeches that infected the majority of a town in Wales. Those who survived became miserable hives for the creatures that devastated their village."</p><p> </p><p>Robert feels out the divot in Jon's flesh, and the Archivist can't help but flinch in pain. He sets his jaw against the inspection of his body, and the effort causes the mechanism in his mouth to slice down, spilling blood from his open mouth as he desperately tries to keep his tongue from escaping along with it. Robert tuts, and sticks a finger into Jon's mouth.</p><p> </p><p>"Careful, Robert," Jonah warns as he saunters down to revive Sampson. "I've had to be very careful to keep him silenced, and you might lose a finger if you dig too deep. Removing the gag is a delicate process."</p><p> </p><p>"Of course, Magnus," Robert says sweetly, but he doesn't take his hand out. He keeps poking around instead, pulling at the ring gag to check Jon's teeth for any irregularities. There are no sharpened canines, no herbivorous molars, just a lot of blood and the ground-down echoes of a lifetime's worth of stress and anxiety.</p><p> </p><p>It's a reprieve from the painful prodding at past trauma, but Jonah knows Jon can hardly bring himself to be grateful for such a small mercy. He takes a seat next to Sampson's dear descendant, scrapes his skin to form a circle of symbols for each of the mundane elements, and begins the incantation as Robert unbuttons Jon's shirt to see what's underneath.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I want not for the man who seeks power </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nor one who aims to see me overthrowed; </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Then I must, so high up in my tower </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Find one who stays so dutifully cowed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I loved him once, perhaps I shall again </em>
</p><p>
  <em> When oceans rise to meet this love of mine </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He shall come, the most blesséd gentleman </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And the truth, like brightest beacon, will shine. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> What pains I take to bring those who love me </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Back into my fold, to forever stay </em>
</p><p>
  <em> By my side, following me joyfully </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I alone make them merry, gleeful, gay. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I toil and grind, on this one sin I slave </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he should ne'er face another marked grave. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sampson shudders into life with a few confused blinks, glancing around the building. "I thought I was dead," he says softly, to which he gets a reply from a very bored-sounding Robert.</p><p> </p><p>"We died. Jonah here has seen fit to bring us back, though I don't know why he would think that <em> you </em> of all people deserved the time put into returning a soul to a mortal vessel." He traces his fingers down the soft curve of Jon's chest, and splays a hand against his heart. Jon's torso is a beautiful mess. Patches of skin have been bleached by his foray into the Lonely, looking like seafoam on a dark beach, and his lungs are outlined by jagged Lichtenberg scars.</p><p> </p><p>Most fascinating to Robert, however, is the soft patch in Jon's ribcage, right above his heart. He presses into it and Jon shudders, a piteous moan escaping his lips. Jonah can see Martin struggling against his own restraints in a vain attempt to reach his beloved, to stop the trauma inflicted on him. It's no use. By the time Jonah is done, Martin will be the weakest man in the room. The only reason he doesn't qualify as such already is because Albrecht has yet to be introduced to his new body, and his host, a man named Julius Keller, is prone to bouts of anxiety.</p><p> </p><p>Robert cups the outline of Jon's heart reverently, and looks at Jon with idolatrous adulation. "You must understand how incredible a feat you are," he says kindly. "Each Fear has marked you indelibly, making you the key to all balance in this world. So few are given the chance to experience even one Power, and you understand each one intimately." He presses a kiss to Jon's head, and Jonah suppresses a snicker.</p><p> </p><p>It's hard not to love Jonathan Sims, it's true. He's beautiful, a monster of perfect proportions. Jonah could spend hours staring at him, just watching him twitch and splinter underneath him.</p><p> </p><p>Albrecht, Jonah feels, deserves to see the light of day next. He sidles over to Julius's side and begins scraping away at the flesh. Behind him, Sampson retches.</p><p> </p><p>"Is <em> that </em> how you're bringing us back? That's horrific! Who are you to decide life and death?" he complains, and Jonah rolls his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>I </em> am the architect of the world all of you are standing in, and I mean that quite literally. You may not recognise me as Jonah Magnus, but I assure you, I am very much the same man who built a library of the esoteric and unnatural out of a townhouse in Edinburgh with next to no funding, and I retain my will and ability." Jonah huffs out a breath, and straightens his hair. "If that's too complicated for you to understand, perhaps you can refer to me as Elias Bouchard. Neither name is very difficult."</p><p> </p><p>Sampson pouts, but quiets down as Rayner slides up to Martin in his chains, curls a finger into his hair. "You should take a look at this one as well, Rob," he intones, tugging harshly and earning a miserable moan from Martin's mouth. "He's been marked quite roundly as well. No Dark, no Vast, not properly, but he's dripping with Loneliness and surrounded by Eyes."</p><p> </p><p>"Later," Robert says dismissively. "You have to understand, Rayner, that this man is a <em> marvel</em>. He has the shadows of the Dark in his eyes, unimaginable power behind them. I cannot begin to comprehend how painful such a thing must have been, how much effort must have gone into making him what he is today." He pets Jonah's hair. "It's such a shame Jonah plans to get rid of him."</p><p> </p><p>Rayner clicks his tongue, and Sampson harrumphs in his seat, and Jonah begins his next incantation.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Once, I thought there would only e'er be one </em>
</p><p>
  <em> To bear the burden and to forge the crown, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But without him, I wouldn't have begun </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He held me up, kept me from falling down. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I sought not to return his affections </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He seemed so far out of my earthly grasp. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But to break this fear down into sections, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was his sacrifice that formed the clasp. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I sing his graces now, pray that he hears </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And leaves behind his endless misery </em>
</p><p>
  <em> For what good is pain, and what good are tears </em>
</p><p>
  <em> When you are the last fact in history? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I toil and grind, on this one sin I slave </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he should ne'er face another marked grave. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It's lucky that Julius Keller would never amount to anything, Jonah thinks, as he kisses Albrecht welcome in this new world. His body is so much better suited to Albrecht, a man who saw frigid weather as an interesting challenge rather than a potential death sentence.</p><p> </p><p>"Hello again, Albrecht," he whispers, stroking his old friend's new hair. "It has been quite a while, I know, but I've finally found a way to be in your company once more."</p><p> </p><p>"Jonah?" Albrecht cocks his head to the side, and looks around the room. "Ah, this seems...wrong, Jonah. As if I recall things which are not mine, pains which never existed." He shakes his head, and Jonah takes a peek inside.</p><p> </p><p>Ah. Unfortunate. Albrecht's connection to his new body isn't quite as strong as the others — without a genetic throughline, memories are bleeding through. No plan can be perfect, Jonah supposes, and he pulls Albrecht's memories of his past life, filtered through Jonah's perception, to try and counter them. Albrecht has always been rather weak-willed, after all. It should be no large problem to pull his attention towards something sweeter than another man's trauma. Albrecht hadn't lasted long enough to gain a taste for that kind of thing.</p><p> </p><p>It works well enough, and Albrecht falls onto Jonah's chest, taking a few heavy breaths before leaning back. "You look beautiful, <em> Spätzchen</em>," he offers, tracing the lines on Jonah's suit. "Very modern — I fear we may have missed out on history, and you, as always, have gone on ahead of us."</p><p> </p><p>"Come now," Jonah chides, resting a hand on Albrecht's thigh. "You can't blame me for taking so long to bring back the dead. It's a rather arduous task at the best of times, and I've been tasked with bringing back such <em> darling </em> specimens."</p><p> </p><p>Albrecht begins to smile, to say something in return, but any semblance of sweetness is shorn in two by the breezy laughter of Simon floating back into the room. "Lovebirds, the lot of you," he chuckles, moving over near the front of the room. "Good to see you again, Maxwell! You're looking quite dashing in that new suit of yours. It's not vintage, is it?"</p><p> </p><p>"Twenty six years old," Rayner replied, stretching out his arms. "It should last a few decades at least. I'd prefer time to grow into it, but you know how excited Jonah can get. He hates to wait."</p><p> </p><p>"That he does!" Simon says cheerfully, landing next to Martin and patting him on the head. "You know, I really will miss this one. Martin Blackwood—he's quite a spitfire if you push him hard enough. Peter took a liking to him, tried to woo him over to the Lonely, didn't he?" He looks down at Martin, who silently glares back up at him. "This all could have been avoided if he'd just taken a job with me instead. But you know how Peter can get."</p><p> </p><p>"Speaking of Peter..." Rayner points back towards Jonah, who is beginning the process of reviving Mordechai. It's endlessly lucky, really, that the procedure he is about to undertake restores the body back to full livelihood. He'd hate to bring Mordechai back with only half a face.</p><p> </p><p>It does, however, require the sacrifice of a life, so Jonah pulls the unfortunate soul he plucked from outside closer as he carves the symbols into Peter's bone. Echoes of fog surround the symbols for water, air, sulfur.</p><p> </p><p>It's a shame, really, that Peter had to die for this. Jonah liked him, really, but at the end of the day, he was only ever a substitute for the original, the one Jonah loved first. He presses a soft kiss to Peter's ruined mouth, and begins to recite the poem.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> In silent boasts and most besotted stares </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Lies an eternity long forgotten, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Catching those dreamers, oh so unawares </em>
</p><p>
  <em> In a lie, a comfort long gone rotten. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> What desperation drives them to the moor? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> What longing emptiness lies within them? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It is the doubt, the never being sure </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And within, feel that anxiety stem. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I have loved, and I have lost, but no more </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I shan't let perfection slip from my clutch. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So let me revel in my rotten core </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I shall not hide it; I have earned this much. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I toil and grind, on this one sin I slave </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he should ne'er face another marked grave. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps he should feel guilty, as he slits the throat of his sacrifice to return Mordechai from the land of the dreaming dead. Peter was like his great-grandfather in many aspects -- in face, in stature, but perhaps most importantly, in the quiet desire to die alone. Peter never achieved his final goal. Mordechai was given the chance, and now Jonah is reeling him back in for his own vanity.</p><p> </p><p>He should feel guilty, maybe, but he doesn't. Instead he watches Mordechai blink his greyish eyes and look around, before covering his face in one large hand and groaning. "I didn't ask for this."</p><p> </p><p>"Tragic. You'll have to live with it, I'm afraid." Jonah kisses Mordechai's free hand and saunters up to Martin. "There are only two left now. How are you feeling, Martin?" He delicately removes the gag from Martin's mouth, and his former employee glares coldly up at him.</p><p> </p><p>"You really think you've won," he says icily, his whole body tense against his restraints. "You think you can just -- bring back every man who's ever loved you, make your own, what, romantic comedy?" Martin laughs emptily. "You really think everything's going to be <em> okay? </em>What sort of monster are you, that this is what you choose to do with your brand new...your actual omnipotence?"</p><p> </p><p>He's always had quite a few hard opinions, but Jonah rather prefers when he kept them to himself. He takes a seat on Martin's lap and cuts open his dreadful jumper to begin the ritual. "A competent one. Do you have any last words, Martin?"<br/>
<br/>
Martin closes his eyes as Jonah digs into him -- a pentacle, a circled dot, soul and heart, faith and love. "I wish I'd burnt them all."</p><p> </p><p>Jonah sighed. "I'm sure you do. Goodbye, Martin."</p><p> </p><p>On the other side of the throne, Jon begins to thrash against his bindings. His tongue hasn't yet regrown properly, isn't fixed to the point where he can even pretend to say anything, but his vocal cords are intact enough for him to let out a pained scream. He has the capability of looking away, he's able enough to turn his head. But perhaps worse than knowing what happens to his dearly beloved is not knowing. Jon <em> has </em> to watch, and as his gaze catches Martin's one last time, he finally begins to cry.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Of all the men I had the chance to know </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He stood by my side through fire and ice </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And when the Mists came to demand a show </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He stayed stalwart, and so he paid the price. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No widows fell weeping upon his grave, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No grieving family built him a tomb; </em>
</p><p>
  <em> In his death there was nothing left to save, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Mists took him, and soon they would consume. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I can't forget the twinkle of his eyes </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Or the warmth of his lips, a rosy kiss. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The nod of his head, the warmth of his thighs; </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He is the one I shall forever miss. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I toil and grind, on this one sin I slave </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he should ne'er face another marked grave. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jonah doesn't wait to see the life leave Martin's body, nor to see the sternum cover over with flesh. He doesn't pay attention to the pointed cough Sampson gives, nor the confused frown of Albrecht. He pulls Barnabas into a deep hug instead, pets the hair he cut short to mimic the style Barnabas used to wear so well.</p><p> </p><p>"It will be hard to get used to this body," he admits to Barnabas, who has begun to sob against his shoulder. "I won't lie to you and say you'll be comfortable forever. But this world of ours allows us anything we wish, and you won't ever be forced to feel any discomfort, ever again."</p><p> </p><p>"Jonah..." Barnabas whispers, holding onto his dearly beloved as if clinging to life itself. "I don't — I can't — I <em> missed </em> you." His mind, along with Martin's body, is rather too addled with fog for Jonah to see into it clearly, but he doesn't bother trying too hard. Barnabas was always the most loyal among them, and he will find his place by Jonah's right hand.</p><p> </p><p>Or perhaps his left. There's still the matter of Jonathan Sims. Jonah slowly extricates himself from Barnabas, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, and passes him off to a bemused Sampson. "I'll be back with you soon, my little moon," he reassures, with a kiss to the cheek. "Everyone will get the attention they deserve soon. But there's one more guest we need to invite."</p><p> </p><p>Jon. Jonathan Sims. The Archivist, the Archive. Jonah's most perfect creation. Jonah has to pry Robert's hands off of him, gently petting Jon's hair as he delicately removes the guillotine gag. More blood spills out of Jon's mouth, and it narrowly avoids landing on Jonah's neatly-polished shoes. "Now, that's rather rude of you. I was going to allow everyone one last chance to meet you."</p><p> </p><p>He turns to the assembled crowd, and gestures towards Jon playfully. "Esteemed gentlemen, I'd like to introduce to you the keystone of this beautiful world. Jonathan Sims — marked by every fear. He is our balance, a thing of beauty I could not have achieved without the assistance of everyone here. I must give a special thanks to Sir Robert Smirke —" Jonah pauses to let Simon clap uproariously and the others politely nod along as Robert preens, "for his most genius theories into the nature of Fear and Power. Mordechai Lukas, Simon Fairchild," a few of the assembled look around in confusion before Simon points at himself proudly, "and Maxwell Rayner, for showing me just what the dark Powers held. Sampson Kempthorne, for giving me the final funds needed to bring my Institute into its finest glory. Albrecht Von Closen, for his indomitable spirit and curiosity in the face of adversity, providing me with the opportunity to learn firsthand. And Barnabas Bennett, my stalwart companion, my first love. You shall all forever have a place in my heart."</p><p> </p><p>Jonah turns back to Jon, and peels open his sternum. He can feel the beating of Jon's heart, desperate, afraid. Behind him, seven pairs of eyes watch attentively. Barnabas's eyes are filled with tears, and Jonah knows he will have to comfort him later, coddle him up and kiss it all better. But not for now. Now, he needs to carve eyes into Jon's bone, scrape staves and runes across his chest, and chant, one last time.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The final page must always be most tragic </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Among its peers, the one that does not leave </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A happier ending feels like magic </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But never real, only a brief reprieve. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I cannot bear to face the world alone </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And refuse to leave my love behind me; </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So let he without sin cast the first stone, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am now and will forever be free. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I shall sit here, wearing this broken crown </em>
</p><p>
  <em> For all to behold, I will be their king; </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sat on my throne, such that all will bow down </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Their praises and misery, they will sing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I toil and grind, on this one sin I slave </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he should ne'er face another marked grave. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jonah watches Jon's face eagerly as the change takes place and Jon is subsumed, replaced by the good doctor. He smiles as Jonathan's face contorts, looking at the visage in front of him. He is perfect. He is divine. He is resplendent. Jonah is, at last, satisfied.</p><p> </p><p>And then Jonathan spits on Jonah's face. "I'm not playing your game," he hisses out, and his consciousness forcefully fades away.</p><p> </p><p>Jonah can do nothing but stare. He looks at Jon's limp form, the man slumped down in his restraints. He doesn't even resist as Barnabas ushers him away to let Rayner dispassionately put the guillotine gag back on.</p><p> </p><p>"It's alright," Barnabas whispers. "He's deserved his rest."</p><p> </p><p>Jonah nods along silently, but fury has begun to boil within him. How <em> dare </em> it not work. How <em> dare </em> Jonathan refuse his courteous invitation. Jonah knows, innately, that he will work this ritual again.</p><p> </p><p>And next time, Jonathan won't be able to refuse.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. To Sit in Solemn Silence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Barnabas adjusts to his new body. There's a lot for him to learn.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Many dozens of thanks to Judie and Nightmare Magnet for beta-ing this chapter for me. I'm kicking around ideas for a third chapter, but it needs to percolate in my mind for a bit before I'm ready to put anything out. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy what's written!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Barnabas sits at the edge of Jonah's bed, tracing the scars along his new body.</p><p> </p><p>Jonah has assured him that Martin Blackwood is entirely up to snuff, and will last Barnabas far longer than his old body, but his arms are full of old scrapes, his chest has two faded T-shaped marks, and his whole skin is covered in strange white <em> splotches. </em></p><p> </p><p>When he was alive, the first time, Jonah had tried explaining what it felt like to be trapped inside a body that should not belong to him. A torturous experience, where one's own body fought against them. It's hard to explain, and nobody else seems to have the same problem, but it's what Barnabas is feeling right now.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dysphoria. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Yes, yes, of course. It's dysphoria, a sort of disconnect between himself and his body. That makes sense, he's...he's never heard that word before. He's reasonably sure that word doesn't exist, or at least didn't exist when he died.</p><p> </p><p>He keeps getting these flashes, of something else within him. Perhaps it's the dysphoria, perhaps it's something else. Perhaps he should talk to Jonah about it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He can't be trusted. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And there it is again! These, these —</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Intrusive thoughts. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>— THINGS, keep popping into his head. Leftovers from wearing another man's skin. Barnabas falls back on the bed, rubbing his eyes and groaning loud enough that he doesn't hear the door creaking open.</p><p> </p><p>"Is something wrong, Barnabas?" comes the angelic voice of Jonah Magnus, and Barnabas sits back up. This isn't the first time Jonah has walked in on him shirtless in his bedroom, and it's certainly not the most compromising time, either. He holds his hands out for Jonah to come closer, and wraps his arms around the man when Jonah takes a seat in his lap.</p><p> </p><p>Jonah. <em> Elias. </em> It's not Jonah anymore, his name is Elias now and Barnabas can't wrap his head around that idea, that he chose a new name — another new name, how many times had he done that while Barnabas was gone? Barnabas can't think of him as anything other than his beautiful Jonah, even as different as he looks. "It's nothing, angel," he says quietly, leaning his head on Jonah's shoulder. "It's a confusing world, is all. I don't understand much, in this new world I've been thrust into."</p><p> </p><p>"I know," Jonah murmurs against his skin. "And I will do everything in my power to make sure you find some joy here, in our new kingdom. I've helped most of the others to understand their place in the future already," Jonah sighs, and Barnabas knows the one exception has to be Mordechai Lukas, who more often than not seems to be completely unavailable, "but I'm afraid your body is causing...problems."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Monster. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Barnabas shudders involuntarily, causing Jonah to pull back in concern. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to cause you trouble, you know. I love you, and I'd love to acclimate as well as Albrecht has, but I — I don't know. It's some strange affliction of my body and my soul."</p><p> </p><p>"Forsaken." Jonah shakes his head, pressing a kiss to Barnabas's forehead. "Martin Blackwood was taken in and pulled by Forsaken, the same as you were. By the same bloodline, no less. I was powerless to do anything but watch, but I learned from my first failure. Martin Blackwood came out of the Lonely, stronger than before, and I knew he had a part of your spirit in him."</p><p> </p><p>Jonah smiles, and Barnabas slumps against him once more. His stomach still churns with indecision, but he ignores it, focusing not on the soothing, terrifying sound of Jonah's voice but instead the content of what he says, the sweetness with which he says it. "Who else would be able to understand the intricacies of such a place? I feel as if he may have been able to survive because of you. Perhaps your soul guided him out, or perhaps it was simply a shining coincidence. Regardless, it was no accident that I chose his body to house you."</p><p> </p><p>It makes sense. It has to make sense. Jonah is the one saying it, after all, and Barnabas has never known Jonah to be wrong before. He curls up tighter against his love, sniffling. "Was he a good man? Martin Blackwood."</p><p> </p><p>"He was fine enough. Nothing of import. All but braindead by the time I brought you into him." Jonah pets Barnabas's hair softly, the way he used to when they were young. "You needn't worry about him. Nothing of value was lost when you came here."</p><p> </p><p>That <em> should </em> make Barnabas feel better, at least a little. He pulls away from Jonah, smiling softly as he presses a kiss to his lips. They're still soft. Not as full and sweet as they used to be, when they were two rose petals on a creamy, flawless face, but it's still Jonah. It's still Jonah, and it's still Barnabas. "I love you, angel. Thank you." Barnabas presses his forehead against Jonah's, and they sit there in silence for a few minutes, two men simply contemplating one another's existence.</p><p> </p><p>It seems like sacrilege to break the silence, as if it's holy somehow, but Barnabas does it anyway, squeezing one of Jonah's hands. "How did you get the others to understand this world, exactly? Albrecht has said something about Beholding, but he wasn't very keen on explaining more, and I don't feel confident speaking to any of the others. Perhaps Simon, but he's...different, than I remember." Barnabas certainly feels like he would remember if the man had floated nearly as often back in the past, and he was another with a brand new name to memorise.</p><p> </p><p>Jonah clicks his tongue, and sighs. "Yes. I suppose you have been rather poorly debriefed."</p><p> </p><p>"Well, I wouldn't go that far. Last night —" Barnabas is cut off with a gentle slap to his cheek and an exasperated sigh.</p><p> </p><p>"You know what I mean, Barnabas. I'm trying to inform you as to how I was able to do this. I am, presently, a servant of the being known as the Eye. The power of Watching, of Knowing and being Known. It allows me to do a great many things I was never able to accomplish in the past, and it also gives me the ability to bestow knowledge upon others."</p><p> </p><p>Barnabas cocks his head. "How so? You already speak quite eloquently, and I would say you're perhaps the most efficient man I know when it comes to conveying information. When I'm not lost in your eyes, of course, but I don't think I can be blamed for that."</p><p> </p><p>Jonah rolls his eyes again, those same eyes he had when they were both young and foolish, but offers another kiss to Barnabas's round cheek. "I can dispense it directly into a mind. Sensations, emotions, visual data, everything can be transferred. I can make everyone else <em> Know </em> the way the world is, but with you..." Jonah trails off with a frown.</p><p> </p><p>Barnabas hates it when Jonah frowns. It's never good — Jonah's unhappiness so often turns into a terrifyingly cold, distant rage. "As I said, you and your new body have both been touched by Forsaken, and such a power resists being Known. It thrives off of misunderstanding, emptiness, loneliness, and as such, when I make the attempt to Teach you these things, it often falls flat."</p><p> </p><p>That...probably makes sense, Barnabas thinks. Jonah does seem very confident about it, if a bit frustrated in the conclusion he has been forced to come to. "I am sorry, if I've done anything to cause you pain," he says gently, squeezing Jonah's hand again. "I want to help you, in any way I can. You know that's always what I've wanted. I ache for nothing less."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, I know, my little moon," Jonah croons. "You're the most lovable thing I've ever owned. Tell me, is it your body that's the problem? Tell me what ails you about it."</p><p> </p><p>Barnabas opens his mouth to explain the problem, but his tongue sticks in his throat. He can't force the words out, can't explain his confusion and frustration. Instead, all he feels is a white-hot something, a feeling adjacent to fear but entirely different.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Don't tell him anything. Don't trust him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Barnabas squeezes his eyes shut, and feels the blood roaring through his ears. He's tensed his face shut, curled up into a ball. When did he do that? Why is everything so uncomfortably loud all of a sudden? He wants nothing more than for it to stop, for whatever chaos is happening in his body to quiet down and leave him be. He doesn't know what he's done wrong.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It's quiet here. Don't let him know how you feel. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Even as Barnabas can feel his heart beating in his chest, he feels the <em> something </em> leaching out of his veins. He sits up slowly, leans into Jonah's touch, and for the first time he can remember, he opens his mouth and lies to Jonah Magnus.</p><p> </p><p>"It's nothing important. It's simply the...way the body was constructed. The way your old body used to be, with the wrong equipment for a man like me. I know it's foolish of me to be upset about such a thing when I've been given such a fantastic opportunity for a new life. Really, you needn't worry about me. I'll handle what chaos has been brought in here myself."</p><p> </p><p>Jonah smiles, slightly taken aback. "I'm glad," he says lovingly. "If you require any assistance, you should know that I am a font of knowledge for such strange dysphoria." He squeezes Barnabas's hand once more, and stands up to leave. "I'll see what I can do to make a written account of the changes this world has experienced, along with a compendium of information regarding how to deal with a new body. I've had practice, of course, and I'll make sure you feel as comfortable as possible by the week's end." He walks back out the door, closing it delicately behind him and letting Barnabas curl back up into a heap by himself.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't understand.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't <em> understand. </em></p><p> </p><p>He doesn't understand what is happening to him, or why! Nothing that's happened in the past few days has made any sense! Barnabas knows this much — he was <em> dead</em>. He was dead and there was nothing that could have brought him back. He'd been abandoned, forsaken, <em> lost. </em> And yet, here he is. Back to life, as if nothing had ever happened, wearing another man's skin. Hearing another man's thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>What?</p><p> </p><p>Barnabas rubs his temples. For all his faffing about, he knows he isn't the fool everyone seems to think he is. He's capable of connecting the dots. What Jonah said about Martin, the strange, useless knowledge he'd been receiving, this Forsaken commonality — it was all connected. Barnabas wasn't shoved into an empty shell, devoid of everything but a heartbeat. Martin Blackwood was a living, thinking person. And he still is.</p><p> </p><p>He concentrates on that knowledge, holds onto it like a precious stone. Rubs it around with mental fingers, trying to open up that connection. He wants to know who Martin was, what  he is now. He wants to know how he came into Jonah's possession, just what's wrong with him, and why he was chosen for Barnabas. If he knows, maybe he can do something about it. Maybe he can —</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>"You know, you're only making this more difficult on yourself," comes the voice from behind him. Martin struggles regardless, jerking his head forward in petty retribution.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry, is my annoyance about you destroying my hair <em> inconvenient </em> for you?" he snarls. Elias simply sighs and tugs on the remaining long locks of Martin's hair, pulling him back up straight.</p><p> </p><p>There's a mirror in front of them. Of course there is. There's always something to see yourself out of in this hideous place, some reflective surface or an Eye That Should Not Be. Everywhere he looks, Martin can see himself, and he knows that Elias can see him too.</p><p> </p><p>He can't Know Martin, not yet. That's one of the only ways Martin knows Jon is still alive, protecting him in this hellish place. But he can still See Martin, can still peer through reflections of his eyes. Even when Martin attempts an escape, he can't get far. The eyes are everywhere, and they never stop watching.</p><p> </p><p>Still, there's some petty joy to be found in making it difficult for Elias to keep him for whatever purpose. He could just kill Martin and be done with it, but instead he keeps Martin around, chains him up in a soft bedroom and feeds him daily, despite it being completely unnecessary. He's allowed Martin to keep his clothes, as well, though Martin can't help but feel as if that's more because he knows Martin would destroy any of the clothes he was given on principle rather than wear what Elias gave him.</p><p> </p><p>Martin's free, a little bit. But he's still every inch a piece of property. He watches Elias snip his hair away, neatly shearing off the ponytail he had worked so hard to grow back out.</p><p> </p><p>Elias has to know that Peter did this, too. Cut his hair off to make him look more ‘professional.' Cut away a piece of his individuality, a comfort that allowed him to be himself. Martin's hair was still mostly brown, back then. A ruddy reddish-brown that his mother always complained looked like muddy clay, that looked just awful with his tawny skin. His skin was still uniform as well, barring the blotchy freckles and acne scars.</p><p> </p><p>Peter had cut Martin's hair in Elias's office, and left him to sweep it up by himself. When he looked in the mirror, he saw the face of his father, just the way Elias had shown him. He grew it out again, desperate to make a change.</p><p> </p><p>And now he's being forced back there again.</p><p> </p><p>To be fair to Elias (as if Martin ever actually wanted to be fair to the bastard that had ruined his life), it's not quite as short as the practical crew cut Peter had given him. It's a fair bit softer, bringing out something like sideburns and framing his face rather attractively. It's puffy, bringing out the natural bounce of his hair that was lost when it got long and heavy. Martin hates to admit it, but he almost looks decent.</p><p> </p><p>That in and of itself makes him want to puke. He's being treated like a doll for Elias to pose around the way he wants to, something pretty and useless. He jerks forward again, and this time Elias's scissors cut him along the ear.</p><p> </p><p>He knows Elias will trot out some punishment for this heinous act of disobedience. He doesn't care. At least he's done something.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Barnabas gasps as he comes back to himself, clutching the strands of hair that are not his with a terrified ferocity. He doesn't know how much time has passed since he was subjected to...whatever <em> that </em> was, but he can't stay where he is. He needs to — was that really Jonah, so cruel to the man whose skin he now wears? Each thought of Martin's has seared into Barnabas's brain, leaving him with painful thoughts, opinions he didn't know he had.</p><p> </p><p>Mordechai — Mordechai is in Peter's body. Mordechai's descendant tortured Martin just as Mordechai had destroyed Barnabas. Jonah is Elias, Elias is a crueler, colder Jonah. And Jon — <em> Jon </em> —</p><p> </p><p>He has to find Jon.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The throne room is quiet as Barnabas steps into it; his footfalls echo almost painfully. He strides up to Jon carefully, crouches down to try and undo the painful-looking gag Jonah uses to keep him silent.</p><p> </p><p>Barnabas still isn't entirely sure why Jonah feels the need to do that. He can't help but feel affection for this man, scarred and broken. "Hello," he says quietly, resting his hands on Jon's shoulders, where they feel like they belong. "Are you, erm, awake?"</p><p> </p><p>"Martin." Jon looks up at Barnabas, relief flowing through his face like water. His eyes are strange — each blink the irises seem to be a different colour, and the sclera, the part so uniformly white, is with him stained an inky black. Barnabas is struck with the sudden, sad urge to kiss him, to apologise for things he doesn't remember.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he shakes his head. "Sorry. I'm still Barnabas. Er, Barnabas Bennett. It's nice to meet you."</p><p> </p><p>Jon's head sags back down in frustration, in anger. "Of course. How could I forget that he stuffed someone else into Martin's body. So terribly rude of me not to immediately recognise that the man I love has been taken over by a parasite."</p><p> </p><p>"Sorry." Barnabas keeps his hands on Jon's shoulders, awkwardly massaging the painful knots out. His hands are so much more calloused now, a lifetime of work and regret at his fingertips where they used to be so soft. "I didn't ask for him to do that, you know. I think Martin was a lovely man, really. If I could give him back his body, I would do so in a heartbeat."</p><p> </p><p>Even with his head down, Barnabas can tell Jon is rolling his eyes. "Of course you would. And I'm sure all the others would say that as well if I were to list off the accomplishments of the bodies they've stolen. You all <em> regret </em> what's happened to you, but of course you can't do anything to change it."</p><p> </p><p>"I really would! I'd...I don't want this, for me or for Martin. Or for you. I know Jonah is only doing what he thinks is best, but I can't find it in myself to understand <em> why </em> he's doing it. He can't even tell me why this world is the way it is, and I just...it's all a bit much, really." Barnabas tears his gaze away, chewing on his lip. "I suppose that's why I came to you. You've always been the smartest man in the room."</p><p> </p><p>"In case you haven't noticed, I'm still not Jonathan Fanshawe. I'm well aware that I look so much like him that Jonah simply <em> had </em> to have me host him. He had me read his story out quite thoroughly before this whole thing began." </p><p> </p><p>"There, and — you say things like that and you expect me to understand what it means!" Barnabas cries. "But I <em> don't </em>. I'm not like everyone else here, I wasn't gifted with the preternatural ability to sniff out the esoteric and strange. I never went hunting for explanations of the unusual, I'm just the second son of some minor nobles who decided he liked sewing more than banking." Barnabas squeezes his eyes shut, hears the roaring in his ears once again. "That's it! That's really all there is to me. Congratulations, you've broken Barnabas down to his bare essentials."</p><p> </p><p>Jon sounds confused. "Did you just...quote a meme at me?"</p><p> </p><p>"What, er. What's a meme?"</p><p> </p><p>"It's, ah, it's a joke, that's shared around among the Internet, which is — it's a communication network that's transferred through the — this would be far easier if you let me Know what you already <em> knew </em> about instead of having some sort of mental dam in your mind, you know."</p><p> </p><p>"I don't — I don't have one of those. Jonah said it's the Lonely doing that, I think, but I don't know how to undo it? It's just something that...is there." Barnabas shrugs helplessly. It's not as if he knows what he's doing, or what <em> anyone </em> here is doing. He's been left, once again, in the dark about the whole affair.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Besides. Jon's supposed to stay out of his head. It's a boundary he shouldn't cross. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jon shakes his head. "Fluttering fool," he mutters, and Barnabas would love to feel offended by that, but he can't really dispute the veracity of the claim. He rather is just that, a fluttering, foolish man. Always doing what other people tell him, keeping his head down, conciliatory and stupid.</p><p> </p><p>Barnabas knows what people say about him. He knows he's not respected by his peers — he's just the stupid second son, his head not screwed on tight enough for banking and his hands too foolish to stay still when they're not sewing. He gave up on trying to fit in with his society long before he died, he knew about the oddity he was. It was easier to keep everyone at arm's length than to understand why they made fun of him, and easier to keep pretending to be a dunce than it was to own up to what he was.</p><p> </p><p>It still <em> is </em> easier to do that. It's easier for Barnabas to pretend that he's just confused and hallucinating than it is to own up to the fact that he's sharing a body, somehow suppressing its original owner without meaning to. It's easier to stay in the dark than it is to admit that when he looks at Jon, he feels affection on two levels — the love Barnabas Bennett had for Jonathan Fanshawe, and the love Martin Blackwood has for Jonathan Sims. It's easier to play the fool. And Barnabas is nothing if not someone who takes the easy road.</p><p> </p><p>There are tears slowly forming in Barnabas's eyes (but no, they're not really his.) He blinks them away, rubbing one eye with a calloused hand. "I'm sorry, really," he murmurs, letting his hands graze over Jon's hair. "I do wish I could help you. But Jonah," Barnabas purses his lips. How does he say this, without being caught? How does he mask such blasphemy towards the only man who has ever truly loved him? "Jonah would never forgive me if I were caught. And I'm <em> not </em> Martin Blackwood."</p><p> </p><p>"If you let him do as he will, you're just as evil as he is," Jon warns, eyes pricked with furious tears. "You know that, don't you? You're not dense enough that you think he's a good person. You have to have some idea what the world outside this birdcage is like."</p><p> </p><p>Barnabas cocks his head, frowning. "...What <em> is </em> it like? Tell me, please."</p><p> </p><p>He watches intently as Jon laughs, a tired, empty laugh. <em> "The world is broken," </em> he begins, reading as if from an invisible script. <em> "The world is broken, and within the tallest tower, the overseer of despair keeps the mechanist of destruction in chains. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Ivan Grozny contracted Postnik Yakovlev to build Saint Basil's Cathedral, the crown jewel of Moscow's Kremlin. Yakovlev was a skilled architect, with a keen eye. He oversaw the construction of the cathedral perfectly, to every specification and beyond. Not a brick was out of place, not a colour mis-shaded. When he was finished, Ivan Grozny blinded him, so he would never be able to make a piece more beautiful than what was before him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Jonah Magnus does not like to think of himself as Terrible. He is awe-inspiring, beautiful and horrible in equal measure. Menacing, cruel, but not awful. Not evil. Tsar Jonah Grozny, the Terrible, Terrifying, Terrific, keeps his own architect safe and secure in his palace. It is safer this way, he assures his architect. It is safer to be in his own domain, than to wander the wastes with someone so fragile. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "The architect tries to protest, tries to bite and attack, but Jonah holds him firm. 'You must understand,' he says, 'I could not allow you to wander around unsupervised. You can't destroy what you've built, not nearly as easily as you and he think.' And he laughs, a cruel laugh. Jonah Magnus has never laughed with someone else. He has always been cruel. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "The architect has no heart, not anymore. He used to have one beating in his chest, but that was hollowed out long ago. He had one by his side, holding his hand, but he watched Jonah desecrate that, carve it hollow and bleed it out so there was room for blood of his own. The architect wonders if he has anything to live for now. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "If he could, he thinks he would like to die. To finally breathe his last, and rid the world of the curse that is his existence. It would be a relief to feel nothing at all, and the world would be rid of one more monster. But of course, Jonah would never let that happen. He keeps his architect alive in the highest tower, and mutilates him, time and time again. There is no peace, he assures the architect. There is no love. There is only fear in this world the two of them have created together. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "The architect looks out. He Looks and Watches and Sees everything. Sitting near Kent is a world ruled by a singular man who was once two. He peels half the face off of every victim in his domain, keeps them for himself. He thinks that his other half might have liked the collection, once. He watches his victims run around, scrabbling to get their identities back, and he thinks that his other half would have liked that too. He thinks about his other half eternally, but even now, in this beautifully ruined world, he remains Hopeless. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "A little town in Iceland has been taken over by a child of storms. Rainwater in their veins, the sky is never clear there, but it is so, so large. The townspeople huddle in their houses and pray for clemency they will never receive. They knew their god, once, knew a rail-thin teenager who listened to loud music and liked to sing along whenever they got the chance. They knew a bright-eyed youth with alternative fashion and a sharp tongue. When they look up to the sky, another level of their houses stripped off, they think they can still see that teenager, conducting the endless storm. They live one room at a time now, trying to find somewhere small they can't be seen, but the sky goes on forever now, and there is nowhere to hide. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Death has so little meaning now, it's easy to forget that it still exists. Over a vast expanse of the Siberian Tundra, a man and his cat wander across the snow, handing people cups with which to hold their souls. It's a tricky thing, after all, to keep your drink secure, and the cups are so very finicky. Those who cower under this man must be careful where they tread, lest they spill their life force out entirely. Mostly, life goes on here, but there are always those looking to pour someone else's life into their own mug, and it's never an equal exchange. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "There is so much fear in the world, and its architect is stuck in a beautiful tower, speaking to the man he once loved, hollowed out and used for parts. The world has gone wrong, and he has gone wrong with it. The only solace, the only shred of hope, is that perhaps he will not know when he is hollowed out as well. If it is done, perhaps he will no longer feel the endless pain." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jon shudders in place, and slumps down. He's exhausted from stretching so far out, not nourished as he should be. Barnabas holds Jon's face in his hands. "I'm sorry for asking," he offers, tracing Jon's scars with his thumbs. "I really am. I just want you to know that...you can trust me, if you want. I want to be on your side, too."</p><p> </p><p>"Ma—Barnabas," Jon begins, but the door slams open before he can finish his thought, and Jonah stalks into the room. Barnabas's shoulders square, and he looks over at a rather frustrated Jonah Magnus.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh — Jonah, did I upset you, I'm sorry!" Barnabas's demeanour changes almost in an instant from the worried compassion he was showing Jon to a simpering affection. He shoots up and hurries to Jonah's side, taking his arm. "I wanted to see Jonathan, and I suppose I was overeager. It's not him, is it?"</p><p> </p><p>"No, I'm afraid not," Jonah says coldly, looking at Jon. "You know I do respect your privacy, Barnabas, and I would hate to interrupt your bonding with another human being, but I'm afraid Jon here is too dangerous to be allowed to run his mouth freely. I keep him like this for everyone's safety, including yours."</p><p> </p><p>Jonah turns to Barnabas and kisses him gently, his lips soft against Barnabas's. It's such a familiar thing, warm and sweet, and Barnabas returns it, staring worriedly past Jonah, back at Jon.</p><p> </p><p>Something has gone horribly awry. Barnabas knows this as surely as he knows the sun sets at night and rises in the morning, he knows it as well as the back of his hand — his old one, not the one he has now. The world has become a horrible place, and Jonah and Jon are at the centre of it. </p><p> </p><p>Barnabas will have to make a choice.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know how safe his mind is, how secure from the evils of this world, but he makes it anyway. Barnabas knows where his cards lie. It's only a matter of time now until he's forced to play them.</p>
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